2013.09.23 - Pickled Gumbo
Remy's back. Like the proverbial cat, he seems to come and go as he pleases. The lanky Cajun thief stalked into Harry's a few hours ago, found a corner booth, and ordered a full bottle of not inexpensive whiskey. He'd been playing cards listlessly, winning, but not by much. There seems to be a thoughtful look about the Ragin' Cajun, one that normally doesn't cross his face. Free spirited and fancy free, it's unusual to see him looking so contemplative. "Twenty one. Blackjack," he informs the guy across the table from him. He grins crookedly and gathers up the handful of wadded up bills, tucking his winnings into his voluminous pockets. "Anyone up for a game?" he says, arcing the cards from one hand to another as the fellow leaves the table with an unpleasant grimace on his face. Storm usually receives phone calls from Harry when 'interesting folk' visit the establishment, even familiar ones. So when she heard from the proprietor that a Southern sounding man was here drinking whiskey and gambling, she knew exactly who it was and how to approach the situation. Dressed in one of her usual downtime caftan dresses (though with a light cardigan sweater overtop to ward off the New England chill), she enters the pub and with a single sweeping glance around the dining area walks directly toward Gambit's table. "Remy. It has been a while." "Ororo." Remy grins at the woman sweeping towards him. Even in a caftan and a sweater, she looks every inch the regal queen. "Anyone evah tell you, you jes' light up de room when you walk in?" he says, the grin growing lopsided. He gestures with a gloved hand at the chair across from him. The fingerless gloves and a freshly mended rip in his Inverness jacket give him a thoroughly disreputable look. Anyone but Remy who walked into Harry's dressed like that might get turned away at the door. But there are few folks indeed inclined to tell the Cajun something he doesn't want to hear. Storm settles into the indicated chair with, yes, regal grace. It's not intentional, really. It's just habit. Still looking at the Cajun squarely, she leans forward a bit to rest her forearms on the table and lace her fingers together casually. "Perhaps I should consider coloring my hair darker, then." Okay, at least she tried to crack a joke. But probably the rather Spock-ish delivery is what ruins it. "To what do we at the Institute owe the honor of this visit?" "Xavier buy a share in Harry's place?" Remy asks the question with an insouciant sort of grin, toying with his whiskey glass. "Last time I check, dis still a private bar. Jes' 'cause you an' yours got a permanent table don' mean ah necessarily have bidness with the Institute," he reminds her, tilting the glass Ororo's direction. He takes a long sip of his whiskey, emptying the glass, and refills it from the bottle, which is down most of a third. "An' don' you do a ting wit your hair, mon cherie," he adds, topping his glass off. "Love dat hair. Ain't a woman on earth can pull that look off but you." Storm smiles faintly, which in Ororo-speak is a full grin. "No, Harry's is still a private business. However, why would you be in Westchester at all if not to speak with someone at the Institute? I always thought you were not overly fond of the chili." And of course, that's when one of the wait staff arrives carrying a bowl of Harry's nearly famous chili, a plate of rolls, and a glass of ice water to set before her. "Harry keeps my bourbon in de back," he counters, putting a finger on top of the bottle's mouth. "Marker's 46, twenny yeahs old. Only person ah know who drinks it. Well, one other," he amends, that distant look coming to his eyes for a moment. The look vanishes in an instant and that constant, shrewd look that always gives Remy the appearance of knowing a bit too much comes back to those devilish red peepers. "But if you tink ah'm jes heah to see someone from de Institute, den you be de official envoy, oui? So what you got to say to Remy bring you all de way down de hill?" That would be one reason, and an honest one coming from Remy. Ororo ahs faintly at the mention of the liquor, then tilts her head slightly at the moment of thousand-yard-stare that crosses the man's features. She delicately picks up one of the rolls set in front of her, and offers it to the red-eyed man. "Well, I was hoping you could help me clarify a few disturbing things of late, but now I suspect that my own request is insignificant against the actual reason that you are here." "Maybe ah'm jes' heah to set yoah mind at ease," Remy says, that challenging grin coming back to his face. He settles back into the seat with a boneless ease, shrugging one shoulder nonchalantly at Ororo. "So what's wrong, mon cherie? Some ting amiss at de Institute dat only Remy can help wit? Because whatever it is, ah didn' do it," he hastens to add, tempering it with another quick, mischievous grin. Storm sets the roll down closer to Remy's side of the table then takes a moment to stir the chili in her bowl. "You seem the last sort that would set others' minds at ease, Remy." A faint curl at the corner of her mouth makes her words seem hopefully more like the gentle prod that they're meant to be, and then she's all seriousness again. "Many of our residents have been departing from the school recently, some without reason or even without notification. It is ... troubling. I was hoping that you might have heard from any of them, or perhaps might know what is causing this exodus. We are ... short on instructors now." "In a word? Genosha." Remy lets the word hang like a death knell. "It dat Magneto psycho. Lotta people buyin' into de 'Great 'Speriment,'" he says. He rolls the whiskey around in the glass, the ice cubes rattling around the container. "He sayin' it a future for mutants, a haven... all dat." He shakes his head. "Ah don' buy it," he remarks, his words a bit slurred. "Nothin' dat good is real. Can't be. He promisin' a better life for everyone, no worries, no pain, no fightin'...." "Hell, half de time, ah tink fightin' is de only ting dat teaches us what's really important in life," he says, a bit owlishly. "Only when you got sometin' worth fightin' for do you know if what you've got is worth keepin'." "Ah'm sorry, what was yer question? ah'm a bit drunk," he admits, with the candor of the inebriated. Ororo takes a small spoonful of the chili while Remy rambles a bit. She has the patience of one used to dealing with the inebriated. Or with children. They are often eerily alike. "I asked if you might have an idea why so many of the Institute's residents have left. And we are already very much aware of Genosha. It is foremost in Professor Xavier's mind of late." If it troubles her directly, her expression as usual offers little to read. "Don' know what else to tell you," Gambit shrugs, knocking back his glass and promptly filling it back up again. "People are lookin' for hope. For... ah don' know. Somethin' they kin get der hands on." He spreads his fingers, flexing them. "ah mean, don' get me wrong. Ah like you guys. Ah like Xavier's whole 'get along' ting. Some of my favorite people are humans. Ah'd jes' as soon we all figger out how to get along. But Magneto, he promisin' a Holy Land. It's like.... you can go there an' see it workin'. An' everyone's gettin' on board 'cause he's not just tellin' them he'll fix de world- he's /doing/ it." Storm ohs faintly. Could that be what prompted Bobby Drake to leave on such short notice? Or Warren, with no notice at all? Increasingly upsetting. "I will certainly mention this possibility to the Professor, then." Another bite of chili, and she adds a bit more gently than is her usual, "Are you really just here for the bourbon?" "Merde." Gambit sighs. "Ah don't know, Ororo. Maybe. No. Ah don' know," he mutters, pushing the glass away from him. "I jes' got back from Vegas. Had a psychotic robot assassin try to shove a four foot spear through my guts. Seem like my past is catchin' up t' me a bit." He lolls his head back, looking at the roof. "An' ah'm wonderin' jes' how long ah kin stay ahead of the assassins an' hit men an' god knows what else, until ah take de hit and end up dead in a guttah. An' what do ah have t' show for it?" He opens his hands, turning empty palms up, and looks at Ororo with a sad sort of desperation. "You know the invitation still stands," Ororo offers quietly, reminding Gambit of the sanctuary available to him at the Institute. "Even if you choose to only visit briefly, you can at least get some decent rest without fear of everyone who is after you. Not to mention, you know Charles's tendency toward being protective of anyone he considers under his wing. He might be able to help with more than just a bed in a secure room." "Woah, buy a guy a drink 'foah you offer him a warm bed," Remy says with an exaggerated gesture and a playful grin. The smile fades, and a look of- almost desperation crosses his face. "What could ah have t' teach?" he asks, slugging back more of the bourbon. "Ain't finished sixth grade. Could teach 'em how to wriggle outta handcuffs," he guesses with a shrug. "Or how t' drink. Ah'm a good drinker. Play cards... work on bikes. You got kids wanna learn how to work on bikes?" Remy's getting more than a little sluggish. He makes a pair of poker chips appear in his hand and flicks them in a tight orbit around one another, then makes them vanish again. "Can't imagine Xavier much approves of poker. Then again, ah bet he cheats." Storm offers Remy another small smile, this one tinged with humor and a bit of sadness. She's felt that same level of desperation herself, though she never really got into the habit of trying to drown her feelings in liquor. "Do you still cook, Remy? I imagine that some of the older children might find 'kitchen science' both entertaining and educational." She takes one last spoonful of the chili before setting it aside and taking a sip of her water. "Otherwise, we'll figure something out. You know the Professor is good at that." It's getting Scott to agree to this that's going to be the challenge. "Why do you think ah don' eat Harry's chili? Ah could cook something better'n that with my eyes shut." He frowns, scratching the back of his head. "Wait, you tryin' to recruit me to run the school's cafeteria?" he asks, wiggling a finger in his ear. "Hell, ah kin teach 'em anythin' dey wanna know 'bout makin' gumbo, ah guess. Beats dealin' blackjack in dive bars an' hustlin' pool, ah guess," he mutters. He eyes Ororo with a shrewd, narrow-eyed gaze. "Wait, what jes' happen? You hustlin' me, Ororo?" Storm chuckles ever so faintly. "No, Remy. No hustle. Just a friend offering sanctuary to another." She stands and steps around to offer a hand to Remy. "Come. I suspect you'll have a bit of a headache in the morning as it is. Perhaps you can cook something for me, if this chili is so offensive to your palate." If she can convince him to not finish that bottle, it would be for the best for everyone. Remy gets to his feet with a boneless ease, seemingly just on the cusp of falling over, but managing his balance adroitly. "Headaches 're for rookies," Gambit informs Ororo, capping the bottle and making it vanish into his coat. "Ah'm a /professional/ drinker." He shakes his head once, clearing the cobwebs, and rolls his Inverness up a bit higher over his neck as they head into the growing chill. "All right, Ororo, les' go see what de inside of de Institute look like. Ah whip you up some gumbo, knock your socks off," he assures her with a bit of a slur, following the woman into the exterior of Harry's. Storm isn't terribly pleased that Remy opted to bring the bourbon along, but she doesn't protest aloud. Instead she nods to Harry -- a silent communication letting the proprietor know that Remy's drinks and her meal were to go on her tab, and then she leads the lightly pickled Cajun outside. Waiting in the parking lot is one of the school's more sensible vehicles, a simple small sedan of Japanese or Korean make that flashes its lights and beeps at Ororo when she unlocks the doors with the keyfob. Remy slumps into the front seat, glancing once and with concern at his Indian, parked in the small shed off to the side of the bar. He settles into the seat and then, pre-empting Ororo's no doubt measured glare, buckles his seatbelt with a surly attitude. "So tell me 'bout th' Institute," he slurs, leaning his head against the window. "Never been there. Heard a kid say 'sh like Christmas every day. Heard another kid say dey turnin' mutants into some kinna special forces hit team, or somethin'. You guys have ap'rtments or is it more like, y'know, bays, or somethin'?" He hiccoughs once. "There a policy on guests an' so on, or you guys like a buncha monks?" Storm smiles faintly to herself as the small car starts the short trek back to the mansion that has become Xavier's school. She tries to explain the school as simply as possible, as she can tell that Remy's brain is fading quickly. "It is at times all of those things, but never all at once. The children are treated with fairness and honesty, and reassured that they are /not/ freaks simply because they look different or can do things other people can't. The students live in dormitory like sections of the school, somewhat like a British boarding school, from what I've been told. The instructors have more private living areas, though they vary. Some have simple rooms, others have complete apartments to call their own. I have yet to determine how the Professor chooses who stays in which rooms, but I have yet to see him choose ... poorly." The car turns the corner and waits briefly as the school's ornate wrought-iron gates swing open. "For tonight, I suspect you'll be staying in a guest room near the faculty living area. We'll see how it goes from there." The winding drive leads them around a stand of trees to reveal the School, mostly obscured by the night time darkness, but still enough of it visible to make the structure seem large and imposing. Ororo drives around to the side of the large mansion, where the drive starts down an incline and a wooden carriage house looking door is opening to let him into the underground garage. It's the work of just another moment and the little car is parked next to a high end roadster, its engine ticking as it cools. Remy dozes off for a few minutes. He starts when the car stops, snorting, then looks blearily around the garage. "Whu? We heah?" He shakes his head, stretching, then with a stumble opens the car door and staggers to his feet. "Guess it's a bad idea t' have th' students see th' new chef come in on a bender, huh 'roro?" he slurs. He leans on the car for support, his eyes half lidded. He gives her a lopsided grin that's a shady, shaky echo of what it'd been about six shots before. "You still wan' me t' whip you up a batch of gumbo? Make a mean gumbo. Did ah say dat already?" he mumbles. "You ever been to Vegas? Ah jes' got back. Robot tried t' kill me an' my date. Don' know why she go out wit' me. Ah jes' jumped on my bike an' took off drivin'. She said she come wit. Den ah fin' out, she can't even touch me witout killin' me. Go figger," he mutters, shambling along after Ororo. Storm hangs the car keys on a hook by the door that leads back up into the mansion proper, then offers Remy an arm to help steady him on his shambling walk. "The gumbo can wait until you've had a chance to rest, Remy. Let's see about that guest room." She lets Gambit set the pace as they walk slowly through to the faculty wing of the mansion -- the rest of the place almost eerily empty-seeming as it's already past lights out for the children, though there are still faintly-heard bits of sound. At one particular little giggle, Ororo actually honest to goodness rolls her eyes as she makes a mental note to go confiscate a particular student's cell phone. Again. "Yer a goo' person, 'roro," Remy mumbles, using one hand to guide himself along the wall. "Don' know why you put up wit' a guy like me. Nothin' but a gambler an' a drinker. Ain't ever been good at doin' anytin' else. Yoah shoah you wan' me round de chillins? Ain't sure ah'm a good influence on dem. Not a good influence on anyone." He shakes his head. "Ah'm sure Xavier ain't gonna want me 'round either. Heard he kin pluck a thought outta yoah head a hundred miles away. He take a look at me an' decide ah more trouble den it's worth." Storm continues gently guiding Remy along. "He can. He can also delve past how your perceive yourself and find the truth where you've hidden it from everyone. Including yourself. I am confident that he'll see what I have always suspected about you. That you have more to contribute to this school and to others in general than you allow yourself to realize." She stops him next to a door set into the rich wooden hallway, then opens the door before helping Remy inside. "Now, would you like to wash up? The attached bathroom should have toiletries." "Yeah. Splash some water on my face," Remy says with a nod, trying to collect himself. He winces and waves away the notion of letting Xavier root around in his head. There are some things the Cajun is perfectly willing to forget. He sheds his jacket and sets it aside, then peels off his shirt as he staggers into the bathroom. Large, partially healed bruises cover his body, and the cut on his jacket matches up precisely to a long swathe of bloody bandages covering one shoulder. It's clear that the wound was a lot more severe than he'd been letting on, and hasn't healed properly yet. Remy disappears around the corner and there's the sound of running water being splashed about as the Cajun does his basic ablutions. "Why you so keen on helpin' me, Ororo?" he asks from around the doorway. He braces his hands on the edge of the sink, red eyes looking at the deep shadows around pools of scarlet in the mirror. "Ah ain't ever done you more than been a gun hand and a pain in de ass. Hell, even Scott don' like me. Den agin, ah think Scott don' like much of anybody," he laughs softly. While Remy shuffled off to splash water on his face, Ororo takes the moment to open the wardrobe in the corner of the room and pull a change of clothes from the collection kept there for moments like these. She glances at the sizing on the sweatpants and hoodie, suspecting they'll swallow the overly-thin Cajun, but children's clothing would be even more ill-fitting. "Why? Because once, several years ago, a small village barely able to feed their own children showed mercy to a wanderer who similarly lacked a sense of self-worth." She also pulls a first aid kit from the bottom of the wardrobe then steps over and offers the clean clothes to Gambit. "Here. Now sit and let me look at that shoulder." Remy walks around the corner, muscles shifting as he steadies himself on the edge of the wall. Even bruised and battered, the Cajun looks like a ball of twine gathered under too-pale skin. He slumps into a seat, kicking off his pants and tugging the sweats on without a thought for modesty. He looks out the window with a listless sort of thoughtfulness, holding his arm out so Ororo can tend to the hole in his shoulder. It's a doozy- the stitches have popped, and Remy's not keeping it as clean as he should. He fishes for the bottle with his free hand, twists the lid off, and takes another healthy belt from it. "You really think you guys can make this work here?" he asks, staring at the moon. "Dis whole... mutant an' human ting? Ah hate t' tink dat Magneto be right. Hate t' tink we gotta have dis argument wit him at all." Storm peels the bandage away from the wound and only manages to keep a straight face from years of keeping her emotions in check. She takes a moment to get the wastebasket and some towels from the bathroom then returns to start cleaning around the injury as best she can. "I have to believe that we can, no matter what Magneto says. And, sadly, Magneto seems to be the sort that would want to pick a fight with anyone that disagrees with him regardless of the topic." She considers for only a second before snagging the liquor bottle out of Remy's hand, getting a towel ready in her free hand, then pouring a small amount of the alcohol over the wound. The stuff isn't vodka, but it's close enough, right? Once she's done blotting the majority of the moisture away from the injury, she takes a tiny swig of the stuff herself. blegh. Gambit hisses under his breath as Ororo tends to the wound, then protests as she spills it on his shoulder. "etes-vou fou?!" he demands, in French. He grabs the bottle back and knocks back a final gulp, then winces again as Storm tends to him. Once she's done, he gets to his feet with heavy lidded eyes, and takes a few staggering steps forward. Finally, the drinks catch up to him and he falls face-first onto the bed like a falling tree, landing slightly askew and dropping the bottle with a clatter to the side of the bed. He snores once, lightly, the bruised skin over his ribs stretching with the slow breathing of the sleeping inebriated. "thanks, 'roro," he murmurs, curling up into a ball on the bed and rolling to face the wall. "Of course, Remy," Ororo says softly, stepping over to pick the bottle up, then gets an extra blanket out of the wardrobe to shake out and spread over the finally sleeping man. Once that's done she moves about the room, cleaning up the used supplies from the first aid kit then turning out the lights and closing the door quietly. Category:Log